


Into the Woods

by Vera (Vera_DragonMuse)



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Vampires, Werewolves, a lot of walking in the woods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-06
Updated: 2012-11-06
Packaged: 2017-11-18 02:27:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/555859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vera_DragonMuse/pseuds/Vera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Hunger came at night. It bent him double and tore pained whimpers from his throat. The very marrow of his bones shifted and quaked, bending him to it’s will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into the Woods

**Author's Note:**

> This is a bit of a lost fic. I started writing it in March 2011 and just recovered in tonight. I'm still fond of it, so I put on an ending and set it free into the wild.

The Hunger came at night. It bent him double and tore pained whimpers from his throat. The very marrow of his bones shifted and quaked, bending him to it’s will. 

He travelled by day, wrapped in a thick wool cloak against the growing chill. Villages signaled themselves in curls of smoke and he skirted them with care. He learned the ways of the woods, walking soft footed and taking his rest in the arms of ancient trees when he could walk no more. 

Until the day he was shot. 

It had all begun ordinarily enough. The autumn sun filtered weakly through the branches. Leaves showered around him in a peaceful rain. 

“Don’t let it get away!” Someone shouted in German.

The sound of a chase rang through the woods. Gun shots rattled through the air and birds rose in angry cacophony. Pain shattered through him and for a brief, horrible moment, he thought it might be the Hunger despite the sun on his face. 

“Oh God! Are you all right?” A man came crashing through the underbrush. “Were you hit?” 

“My shoulder.” He gasped out.

“Damn it all.” He had a curious lilting accent. “I’m terribly sorry. Can you walk? Please, come back with my home with me and I will see you healed and fed.” 

“I’m fine.” He gritted out. “I will find a physician in the next town.” 

“I am physician.” A strong shoulder went under his good arm and they were moving through the woods. “Dr. Theodore Smith at your service.” 

“That must be lucrative if you make a habit of creating your own patients.” He winced at the sound of his voice, hoarse and raw from disuse, stumbling awkwardly over his rusty German.

“You are the first. And the last. I told him I was no good with a gun.” Theodore sighed. “What should I call you, wanderer?” 

“Arthur.” He looked back longingly at the woods. “Call me, Arthur.” 

~*~ 

The doctor’s cottage was divided into three rooms and one was given over entirely to a neat office filled with advanced medical paraphernalia. It was incongruous with the rest of the house which boasted only a small wood stove for heat and an ostentatious lack of any luxury. 

“Go on and hop on the table. You’ll need to take off your shirt and such.” Theodore called out from where he was shoving wood into the stove. 

“Really, it was just a graze.” Arthur hunched in on himself. “You needn’t trouble yourself.” 

“If that gets infected, you’ll be in a sorry state. Get on the table. I promise to be gentle.” 

Seeing no polite way to avoid the situation and feeling too weak to run, Arthur shrugged of his cloak, jacket, sweater, shirt and undershirt. The bullet had pierced them all. 

“That’s no graze.” Joseph came in, eyes wide. “Went right through the meat of the shoulder.” 

“I’m sure it’s nothing.” 

“You’re barely bleeding.” 

Arthur tilted his head, gazing at the wound, The hole in his shoulder sluggishly oozed a brakish liquid. Sunset would rewind his body back to the day of his first change, but that was hours away. 

“I-” He began then faltered.

“What are you?” Joseph to his credit, didn’t move or show fear. Only curiosity.

“I don’t know.” He shivered. “Can I put my clothes back on now?” 

“Do you eat stew?” 

“...what?” 

“Stew.” Theodore pointed vaguely towards the kitchen. “If I can’t fix you up, I still owe you a meal at least.” 

“Is there meat in it?” 

“That’s what I was hunting for today.” Theodore smiled weakly. “I cannot depend on my friends to stock my larder every year. So for tonight, we have only potatoes and carrots.” 

He neglected to mention the bread which Arthur ate in careful hoarding bites. His body didn’t seem to need cooked food anymore and it wasn’t practical to procure when trying to avoid people. Chewing a bite of homemade bread, smeared with fresh butter overwhelmed his senses. Dipping bits of it into stew only enriched the experience. Theodore let him eat without interruption though his eyes never left him and his own plate went untouched. 

“Thank you.” Arthur set down his plate at last. 

“You are most welcome.” 

“Ask your questions.” He leaned back in the chair, closer to the inexorable hat of the stove. “But then I must go. I cannot stay here once the sun sets.” 

“What happened to you? Were you born like this? Wait, wait! One moment!” The waiting must have burned at him. Theodore practically danced as he retrieved a notebook, ink and quill. “Right, please proceed.”

“I wasn’t born like this.” The taste of butter faded from his mouth. “I was attacked.” 

“By what? Who?” 

“I don’t know. It was dark. It came from behind. One moment I walked, the next I slept.” The visions of gold and white still flickered in his memory like the last hopeful beacon to a ship headed towards cliffs. “When I woke, I found nothing missing, so I continued on to my cousin’s home.” 

“And you had no markings? No wounds?” 

“I had a bruises on my arms.” Finger shaped bruises. “My neck and head hurt, but there were no marks.” 

“Ah.” Theodore wrote this down diligently. 

“Nothing felt out of the ordinary that day. Except I was chilled.” He inched closer to the stove in memory. “I couldn’t get warm. My cousin piled blankets on me and we assumed it was an unseasonable cold. Then...the night.” 

“What happened?” 

“Hunger.” He had never come up with another word for it though it was woefully inaccurate. “Have you ever starved, Theodore?” 

“I live now as I did not before.” Was the only reply, one hand resting on his comfortably rounded stomach. 

“Then you know.” Arthur stared into the fire. “It’s a feeling of starvation. Utter deprivation. It doesn’t matter how much I eat at the dinner table, when the sun goes down it’s as if I have touched nothing for days...weeks. I become capable of things.. inhuman things.” 

“Hello the house!” A yell startled them both and nearly upended Theodore’s inkpot. “You still alive, Theo?”

“My friend.” Theodore groaned, rising. “I forgot when I shot you. He must have imagined the worst.” 

“I’m coming in!” The yell came again, before Theodore could reach the door. It slammed against the wall. Light poured into the darkened kitchen, the wind catching hold of the fire and making it dance. 

“My apologies.” Theodore smiled at the new comer. “I shot a different sort of prey than we intended and had to make it right. I had forgotten you were still out in the woods.” 

“How you wound me.” The door shut and Arthur’s eyes adjusted. 

The man was tall and broad at the shoulders. His hair was a ragged mess, falling to his chin in uneven hanks. A mess of pelts stitched haphazardly together to make a jacket was thrown over homespun pants and shirt. The only respectable part of his outfit were thick soled work boots that looked old, but practical. 

What Arthur noticed first though, was his smell. It caught in his nostrils and wove its way into his brain, tightening around his thoughts. Musky and dark, it infiltrated him, claimed him and left him wanting. 

“And this is your stag?” The man was asking Theodore. “Do I rate an introduction at least?” 

“Arthur, this is my friend Eames. Eames, this is the man I shot, who goes by Arthur.” 

Eames hand was suddenly under his nose, the smell intensifying almost unbearably. 

“Nice to meet you, Arthur. I hope our doctor didn’t put too large a hole in you.” 

“It was nothing.” He tentatively shook the proffered hand. Eames stiffened when they touched and Arthur quickly withdrew. Did his touch disconcert people now, chill as it was? All the more reason to avoid them.

“Do you hunt, Arthur?” Eames asked, taking the seat Theodore had only recently vacated. His eyes raked over Arthur’s face, searching...for what? 

“Oh, leave off it.” Theodore gathered up his papers, deftly shielding them from Eames’ glance for which Arthur was painfully grateful. “He’s not like you.” 

“He’s not.” Eames echoed. “No. He is something else entirely.” 

“Excuse me?” Arthur frowned. 

“Not plebeian town folk like Theo and I.” Eames leaned back in his chair surveying him. “You’ve got the air of aristocracy.” 

“Do I?”

“That cloak is fine wool, is it not?” 

“And if I said it was stolen?” 

Eames barked out a laugh. 

“Oh, I like him, Theo. Can we keep him?” 

“He isn’t a pet.” Theodore rolled his eyes. “And I’m sure he wasn’t walking through the woods to take in the fresh air. He’s on his way somewhere.”

“Are you? On your way somewhere?” 

“Yes.” Arthur stared into the fire, the faint tug urging him to get on with it. “I’m looking for someone.” 

“Oh, who?” 

“For a man who lives in the woods, he knows a surprising amount of gossip. Perhaps, he can be of service.” Theodore relaxed in Eames’ presence, smiling more openly. 

“Why do you live in the woods?” 

“I’m a trapper by trade.” He ran a hand down his mess of an overcoat. “Living in town would only slow me down. Now tell me who you’re looking for.” 

“I can’t.”

“Why not?” 

He rose from his chair. “I must go. I have much ground to regain before nightfall.” 

“Don’t let me drive you way.” Eames reached for his cloak and tugged. “Sit. I won’t ask any more nosy questions.” 

Reluctantly, Arthur sat. He blamed the enticing scent. Eames turned to Theodore, engaging him conversation about trading services for meat in the ensuing winter. The room was cozy, the fire seductive and his shoulder throbbed. He slept. 

~*~ 

The Hunger woke him. The fire was down to embers, the table empty of dishes and people. Someone had thrown a blanket over him, but there were no trace of his host or Eames. Casting the blanket aside, he flew towards the back door, nearly snapping it from it’s hinges as he raced into the coming night. 

The forest welcomed him, sheltering him in shadow. A piercing howl warned him that he did not hunt alone. He caught the sound of rustling boar. Within minutes, he had it’s skin under his teeth and he fed with single minded pleasure. Only when he released his prey did he survey his surroundings. A pair of amber eyes regarded him over the kill. 

“Have what’s left, it’s of no use to me.” He offered, backing away slowly. 

The wolf’s eyes stayed on him until he was several yards away. Then it trotted forward, nosing the boar, before taking a large chunk out of it’s flesh and eating with relish. Arthur climbed up a nearby tree and settled on a branch to watch it eat. The wolf was economical, stripping flesh from the meatiest places, apparently unconcerned by the missing blood. 

Finished with its meal, the wolf carefully licked its chops and turned to stare right back at Arthur. It watched him for a long time and he was careful to make no sudden moves. Apparently, it approved and settled in the grass under his chosen tree with a deep doggy sigh, before sliding into sleep. Satiated and feeling just as safe here as he’d been in Theodore’s kitchen, Arthur followed it into dreams. 

~*~ 

A scream wrenched him from sleep before the sun had its chance. He tensed, trying to pinpoint the sound. It came again, a throaty long protest of pain right beneath him. Dropping from the tree, he came to the wolf’s side. But he found in her place a woman, very naked, and very pregnant. 

“Go away.” She curled around her stomach protectively. “I have nothing to steal.” 

“I’m not a thief.” He shrugged off his cloak, ignoring the rush of cold air, and offered it to her. 

“My husband will be here soon.” She said and her eyes were a little glassy. “He told me to wait here.” 

“You need a doctor.” He decided. “Can you walk?” 

She staggered upwards, his cloak doing laughably little to cover her. She made it a few steps before another wave of pain brought her to her knees. 

“Hold on.” He rearranged the cloak on her as best he could, then bore her upwards. “Put your arms around my neck.” 

“It’s all right” Her head hung down limply, so he rolled it onto his shoulder. “My husband will come for me soon.” 

Arthur kept his opinions of this husband to himself. They had to pause every few minutes when a contraction took her, her arms tightening almost unbearably around his neck, then loosening again as she went limp in exhaustion. Sometimes she lapsed into French, cursing the world with impressive creativity. 

By the time they reached the cottage, she was nearly delirious. Arthur kicked at the door, unwilling to set her down to knock. When Theodore answered swathed in a thick robe, his curly hair pressed flat to one side of his head. 

“It’s not even dawn, can’t it-” He paused, taking everything in. “That’s Mrs. Cobb. Where did you find her?” 

“In the woods, exposed to the elements.” Arthur gritted out. “She kept saying her husband was coming for her.” 

“And you moved her?” 

“She’s in labor and alone. You wanted me to leave her there?” He snapped. “Now either move or be prepared to deliver the baby on your doorstep.” 

“Here, here.” 

The door opened wider and Theodore directed him to the office. Arthur lay Mal gently down on the table. On impulse, he went to the kitchen and found the blanket he’d cast aside last night. Tenderly, he covered her with it, layering it over his cloak. 

“Her contractions are down to roughly two minutes apart.” He said. Her hand roved aimlessly around the table until he took it his. She didn’t shrink back from his cool touch, probably not lucid enough to process it. 

“How do you know about birthing babies?” Theodore asked, ducking under the blanket to check her progress. 

“My mother was a midwife.” 

“Ah. Here.” Theodore thrust a wet cloth at him. “Keep her cool. Talk to her. She is very close now.” 

“Did you hear that?” Arthur got down on his knees, his mouth near her ear, one hand still entangled with hers. “You’ll be a mother soon.” 

“Soon?” She turned her head, locking her eyes with him. He brushed the cloth over her forehead. 

“Soon.” He repeated. 

Her eyes locked onto his, dark beacons in the tense heat of the room. Arthur breathed in and out with her. They didn’t speak, didn’t hear. Everything caught in the space between them, filled with some unspoken power. Mal seemed hardly aware of her body. Their hands gripped tightly together. When a contraction shook her, it was only the wave of an ocean. They were elsewhere, together and without sin, pain or fear. 

“Here’s the head!” Theodore crowed what might have been hours or seconds later, shattering whatever it was. Arthur blinked rapidly, finding his eyes gone quite dry. “You’re doing well, Mrs. Cobb. One more push.” 

“One more.” Arthur leaned forward and impulsively kissed her forehead. Her skin burned under his lips. “You can do this.” 

“Yes.” She smiled, fingers sliding around his wrist and holding it with incredible strength. “I know.” 

Her whole body rippled with effort and the room filled with the high pitched sobs of a newborn. 

“It’s a girl.”Theodore took her to the basin, wiping her gently clean. “Healthy.”

“Phillipa.” She smiled tiredly. “Her name is Phillipa.” 

“Here.” Theodore settled the still crying newborn into Mal’s arms. 

“She’s beautiful.” Arthur offered, a horrid rush of awkwardness overtaking him, now that the moment was broken. 

“She is.” Mrs. Cobb smiled down at her daughter. “Thank you...what is your name?” 

“Arthur.” 

“Thank you, Arthur.” She took the hand that she had abused and laid a kiss on it. “You were most kind to a lady in distress. Though you best let me handle my husband when he comes.” Her nostrils flared. “And he will be here soon.” 

Sure enough, a rapid panicky knock soon rattled the frame of the house. Theodore answered the door and barely had time to reply to whatever frantic question was posed when he was pushed aside. 

“Mal! Mal!” A shaking rake of a man burst in, looking haggard and furious. 

“I’m here.” She smiled at him. “Come meet your daughter.” 

“My daughter.” He stopped short, staring at Phillipa. “I have a daughter. Is she-” 

“Healthy.” Mal kissed him. “Theodore says she’s healthy. “ 

“Why didn’t you wait?” He asked, one hand going tenderly to her cheek. 

“Arthur found me. I was in too much pain to explain properly. He carried me here.” She said admiringly. “And held my hand the whole time.” 

“She was in distress.” Arthur crossed his arms over his chest, refusing to shrink back from Mr. Cobb’s jealous glare. 

“He shouldn’t have moved you.” He protested again. “What if-” 

“But nothing happened.” She said firmly. “ Thank the man.” 

“Thank you.” Dom exhaled, surprising Arthur with his apparent sincerity. “Mal has a medical condition that makes it unwise for her to be moved. I was worried.” 

“I’m sure it was also unwise for her to be naked in the woods in the dark.” Arthur replied tartly.

“That was my fault.” Mal cut in. “I’m tired. Dom, take the baby please.” 

Dom looked so petrified that Arthur had to step in. 

“Like this.” He moved Dom’s arm to curl around the baby and support her head. 

“Thanks.” Dom cradled his daughter close. 

Then the smell met Arthur again and he nearly ruined the moment by salivating. 

“All right in here then?” Eames voice followed his smell by seconds. “Is she found?” 

“Safe.” Dom called back. “Come see my daughter and the man of the hour.” 

“The daughter is new, Arthur I’ve met.” Eames pressed into the room, taking up the remaining space. “Hello again. What are you doing here?” 

“Rescuing Mal from the dark and dangerous woods.” Now that everything was secure, Dom seemed almost amused, winking at Eames. “He found and carried her here.” 

“You carried her? That must’ve been a haul.” Eames looked over him speculatively. Arthur looked blandly back. “What were you doing out there anyway? When you left before saying goodbye, we imagined you’d returned to the road for your journey.” 

“I don’t travel by the road.” Arthur slipped from the room. 

“Here.” Theodore gestured at him frantically. “Peel and chop these.” 

He thrust a knife and a sack of potatoes at him. 

“Why?” 

“They’ll all need feeding.” Theodore frowned at the bubbling pot on the stove. “And Mal should rest a while here. The stew from last night would carry me alone...it can be stretched, especially with the rabbit Eames brought.” 

Arthur peeled and chopped. What he should be doing was leaving. The tightness in his chest that drew him ever onward had returned with a dull throb, warning him that every moment he waited was another moment lost. He should follow the urge and leave these strangers to their lives. Instead, he showed Theodore the trick to getting the peel off in one long strip and diced the potato small enough to cook quickly. 

“You’re a man of many talents.” Eames came into the kitchen, beaming from ear to ear. “Mal claims you put her into a trance.” 

“She was delirious.” He scoffed. It hadn’t felt like the hypnotic stare that worked on prey. 

“Whatever it was, you did it well.” Eames pat him on the shoulder. The warmth of his skin was penetrating. “She wants you to stick around for Phillipa’s baptism. It’ll be soon, we don’t get many births out here and the priest is always anxious to fling holy water at someone. Nothing to keep you from your journey overly long.” 

“I don’t-” 

“You can stay with me.” Theodore offered, grinning. “We never did finish our conversation.” 

“Thank you.” Arthur settled on non-committal and polite. 

Dom joined them at the table in time for dinner, grinning at everything that came near him. When the food was set down, Arthur again reverently chewed his bread and watched as Dom and Eames ate hunched over their plates, putting away an unholy amount of food. 

“You should try some of this.” Eames said around a mouthful of stew. “It’s delicious.” 

He ladled a single spoonful on Arthur’s plate. Dead meat filled his senses and he gagged, digging his fingernails into his thighs to keep from throwing up. He carefully edged the plate away from him. 

“I couldn’t. You’re enjoying it far too much.“ He managed to say through gritted teeth. 

“Your loss.” Eames shrugged and dug in. “Look, Dom’s going to sleep here tonight. Theo’s floor is bound to get crowded. Why don’t you come back to mine?”

“No, thank you. I don’t need much sleep.” 

“You’ll need some. And my floor’s as comfortable as any. I won’t even be home tonight.” 

“Really, no thank you.” He frowned down at his hands. 

“Now look here, I’m not sure what I’ve done that’s offended you. But it’s a good offer. You should take it.” 

“I’m going for a walk.” ” He said coolly and slid from the table. 

“It’s getting dark.” Dom squinted at him. “Not always safe out there.” 

“Is that so?” He flashed him a predatory smile, slipping outside.

Cold air burst against his skin. He’d forgotten that his cloak was still inside, drenched in Mal’s sweat. Squaring his jaw, he went on tracking the sun. When it kissed the ground, he was ready. For once, he longed for the Hunger, for the simplicity it would bring. When it hit, he bent backwards to look up at the sky. The moon was rising fat and full. 

Everything slid into place.

He let a small smile cross his face and then he was running.

Somewhere not far away, he heard the howling of the wolves. He pushed outwards, running wild through the trees, ears pricked for the least sign of life. The wolves paced him, never close enough to see, never far enough to disappear from his awareness. 

The cold and Hunger spurred him on until he practically stumbled over a fat deer. He stared into one of it’s eyes until it stilled. When he latched on, it waited placidly for death. Drinking deeply, he felt a flush of warmth come to his skin and the Hunger reluctantly abated. This time, he was prepared for the coming of the wolves. Two came, circling him as he finished his meal. When he took his arms and gaze away, the deer collapsed to the ground.

He didn’t back entirely off the kill, but they approached anyway. They both had lucid blue eyes and thick mottled coats. One was larger than the other and he put his nose close to Arthur’s face, inhaling deeply. In return, Arthur got a noseful of that enticing scent. 

“Bon appetit, Mr. Eames. “ 

He tipped his head towards the kill that the other wolf, Dom presumably, was already making short work of. Eames chuffed at him and moved reluctantly away, maneuvering the deer’s corpse so that he could watch Arthur as he ate. When Arthur started to stand, Eames growled a warning. He sat back down. Dom tore at one of the deer’s legs, fumbling it into his mouth and trotted away, trailing blood behind him. 

“For Mal?” Arthur asked. Eames sat back on his haunches and licked his chops with great relish. “Yes, you’re welcome.” 

Eames looked over his shoulder then back at Arthur. He got up and butted Arthur with his head. 

“You want me to go with you?” He clamored to his feet. Eames bounded off into the dark. 

The heavy fatigue that came after sating the Hunger slowed him down. Eames circled back, padding around his legs, encouraging him onward. The moon was descending by the time they reached a thatched cabin. Eames reached for a leather thong hanging from the doorknob and yanked on it with his sharp teeth. The door swung open.

There was a fire burning merrily in a broad stone fireplace and Arthur sank gratefully onto the hearthrug, holding his hands in front of it. The wolf sat down next to him, nudging him until they curled together before the flame, drowsy predators after the kill. 

~*~ 

“Werewolf.” Arthur accused blandly over the kitchen table. Eames was hunched over a plate of eggs, devouring them as if they might run off. 

“Here wolf.” Eames pointed at himself. “There...what? Vampire?” 

“Maybe.” He sipped at a jelly jar filled with water and pushed down the itch to get outside and walk. 

“Maybe? Sort of thing you’re usually sure of.” 

“I didn’t die.” He turned the jar slowly in his hands. “Or at least, I don’t think that I did. During the day, I feel the same mostly except that I can’t warm up. At night...I have to feed and then sleep.” 

“You hypnotized that deer.” 

“Yes.” 

“And you can’t eat meat.” 

“Do you drink rancid milk?” He watched the water spill over the sides of the jar and forced his hands to still. 

“Point.” Eames studied him. “Have you killed a person yet?” 

“No. And I resent the yet.” 

“You aren’t tempted?” 

“Always.” He stared across the table. “That’s why I stay close to the woods.” 

“Who are you looking for?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“How can you not know?” 

“I just don’t.” He got up from the table and paced. “When the Hunger hit me the first time-” 

“The Hunger?” 

“It’s what I call it.” Arthur paused in his stride. “Is that a problem?” 

“Very imaginative.” Eames waved a hand. “Go on.” 

“After that first time, I felt drawn. Like a rope was tied around me and was being tugged upon.” The floor creaked under his boots. “I left behind everything to follow it.” 

“You couldn’t’ve stayed anyway.” Eames said gently. “They would have killed you if they found out what you’d become.” 

“Is that why you live all the way out here?” 

“No. This town has always had lupines. We’re a sort of touchstone protection, not exactly trusted, but hardly the enemy.” He laughed, a little bitterly. “Of course if you asked them if we existed, they’d deny it to the ends of the earth.” 

“You were born this way?”

“It’s the only way.” Eames shrugged. “As you’ve undoubtedly discovered, the legends aren’t always right. Either you’re born one or you aren’t.” 

“That’s why Mal was waiting in the woods.” 

“No. She and Dom are just bloody stubborn and wanted to do things the old fashioned way. Dom went back to the house to get a few things. Must’ve been right when you woke up.” 

“And it’s just the three of you?” 

“My family’s long dead. The Cobbs arrived here a few years ago following my spoor. Others might come eventually, but the woods are shrinking. Our numbers are not what they once were.” He pushed the last cold bit of egg into his mouth. “What about you? Have you met any others of your kind?” 

“No.” He stopped pacing to stare out the window. “That is why I follow the call.” 

“You want company?” 

“I want an explanation.” His nails bit into his palm. “What am I? Why me? Am I dead? Damned? Can it be undone?” 

“I didn’t take you for a religious type.” 

“I wasn’t. I also didn’t believe in superstitions like werewolves and vampires.”

“You’ve tried hard to keep your moral center. I don’t think any decent God would damn you for that.” 

“And you, are you religious?” 

“All three of us attend the church.” Taking up the plates, Eames dumped them into a tub of water. “The priest is an interesting man, but we have had long conversations with no resolution about the state of my soul.” 

“Because you’re a werewolf?” 

“Because I am a sinner.” And suddenly Eames was quite close, his breath in Arthur’s ear. 

“How do you sin?” 

“Ah, ah. That is between me and my confessor.” Eames looked over Arthur’s shoulder out in the woods. “You’re thinking about leaving.” 

“Yes.” 

“Give us until the baptism. Mal would be broken hearted if you don’t come. She took a liking to you.” 

“She’s an extraordinary woman.” 

“Isn’t she just?” Eames rested a hand on Arthur’s arm. “Only for a few days.” 

“Only until the baptism.” 

“Good man.” 

He worried that the relentless compulsion to travel onwards would drive him to distraction, but it seemed everyone had schemed to keep his day busy. After their conversation, he and Eames walked the forest to check traps. Eames chattered endlessly whatever came to his mind and he was surprisingly well educated. When they came close enough, Eames dropped him off to Theodore’s cottage for lunch. Theodore, who happily peppered Arthur with so many questions that his notes were soon soaked with excited ink spills and blots. 

“What about you?” Arthur asked, wearying quickly of having to say ‘no’ and ‘I don’t know.’

“What about me?” 

“You’re not from here.” 

“No.” Theodore set down his pen. “I was taken from my family as a child by a French missionary. He promised my parents that I would be well educated and well kept. And so I was. Became something of a curiosity in the court. Like a talking dog.” The faintest note of bitterness disturbed his voice, but otherwise it was as if he was talking about someone else's life. “When he died, I took a small inheritance and moved as far away as I could manage.” 

“And your parents?” 

“How am I to know?” Theodore smiled thinly. “I can no longer speak the language of my youth, can pen no letters they could read. I don’t remember the name of the village I was born in.” 

“What about your name?” Arthur asked softly. “Do you remember your name?”

“Yusuf.” He pressed a hand over his heart. 

“Salam, Yusaf. “ Arthur smiled faintly. “A’mal ka.” 

“You speak Arabic?” 

“I am-was a translator. It’s not my strongest language, but I can teach you what I know.” 

“That would be- Thank you. Who did you translate for?” 

“In exchange.” Arthur plowed on. “No more questions.”

“You only had to say.” Yusuf tucked his papers away with obvious reluctance. 

Their lunch passed more pleasantly after that. 

Mal claimed his afternoon. She opened the door to her home with a broad smile and open arms. He hung back for a moment, unsure and tentative until she pulled him forward. Then he clung to her, head turned into her neck. Her hand ran over his head and back, warm and loving. He could have stood there forever. 

“Come in.” She said, muffled into his shoulder. “The neighbors will talk.” 

Inside, she handed him the soft gray cloak. The bullet hole neatly repaired and cloth cleaned. Her stitches were neat and small, nearly invisible. 

“This is beautiful work.” 

“I’m a seamstress, it should be. Do you have other clothes?” She’d asked gently as she pressed the garment into his hands. “Only yours are quite worn.” 

“I wear everything I own.” 

“I thought so.” She presented him with a knapsack that felt heavy in his hands. “A man about your size died before I could return these. I stored them, in case. I see now that they are for you.” 

“I can’t-” 

“They are our thank you.” She pushed the bag into his hands. 

“You’re welcome then.” 

“Come, sit. Read to me while I work.” 

Laughing at her bossiness, he took a chair. Phillipa blinked at him sleepily from her bassinet. Mal reached into a large basket and pulled out mending work. 

“What should I read?” He could see no papers in the house and certainly no shelf of books. 

“Here.” She reached into her basket and pulled out a fat leather-bound volume. “Dom is forever borrowing my books and forgetting where he left them. This is my favorite, so I hide it.” 

“You both read?” He opened the front leaf. A brilliantly colored illustration spread before, a fey of some kind perched on a flower. 

“We were not always as you find us now.” She looked to her work. “Read on, sir.” 

The volume proved to be a collection of fairy tales. He found a much dogeared page and began with that story. It was simply told, made more interesting by the contents than the language. 

“Didn’t your mother tell you stories?” Mal asked when he said as much. “The language is simple so the meaning is clear. “ 

“My mother was a believer in practical lessons.” He stroked the cover of the book idly. “If we wanted stories, she made us learn the original language they were written in.” 

“We? So you have a sibling?” 

“A cousin.” He stilled his hand. “She lived with us until my mother died.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“It was a long time ago.” 

“Where is this cousin now? She must miss you.” 

“Must she?” He smiled weakly. “She was to marry into a great fortune when we parted. Had I stayed, doubtless the match would have been jeopardized.” 

“Because of what you are?” Her question thickened the air between them. He recalled the she wolf’s eyes upon him while he feasted in the woods. It had not escaped her after all.

“I almost killed her.” His hands began their march over the book’s binding again. “She cared for me that first night. When the pain diminished, she filled my senses...the smell of her, the sound of her heartbeat. I came within inches of killing her. I had her...” He could still remember the fear sliding into contentment as his eyes worked their hypnotic spell for the first time. “I would have killed her.” 

“But you didn’t.” 

“No. She rallied, fought me off. Slapped me. It brought me, briefly, back to myself. Long enough for me to leave the house and feed elsewhere.” 

“Did you ever see her again?” Mal had long stopped working, watching him carefully. 

“Once. A week after that first night when it was clear that what happened was going to continue to happen. I watched her through the window. Left a note for her with a servant.” 

“How hard that must have been.” She was up and across the room, pulling him back into a warm embrace, before he could blink. “You must have been very lonely.” 

Loneliness had never crossed his mind. The last year had been only about survival and moving towards whatever it was that pulled him onward. What right did he have to be lonely? But secured in her arms, he felt human again. 

“You’re lucky I know how things are.” Dom drawled from the doorway. “Or I’d get jealous.” 

“You’re jealous anyway.” Arthur twined his arms around Mal’s waist, so that she fell into his lap laughing. 

That night he hunted alone, the moon too dwindled to awaken the wolves. After he made his kill, he fought sleep to drag it back to Eames’ cabin. 

“If you want to give me a gift,” Eames said in the morning looking at exsanguinated deer on his doorstep, “I’d prefer something in the vein of flowers or poetry.” 

“It would only have been wasted.” Arthur unfurled from the hearth rug. “You can take the meat, tan the hide.” 

“Efficient.” Eames bent at the knee to haul the stag upwards over his shoulder. “Start breakfast while I butcher this.” 

Arthur watched him walk through the clearing, one hand clenched around the door frame. 

~*~ 

The day of the baptism, clouds gathered ominously together in the sky. The church bells rang dully, muffled by the coming storm. 

“Snow.” Eames predicted as they trudged up the dirt road. “And lots of it.” 

“This early?” 

“Always.” Eames laughed. “You look surprised.” 

“I’ve come farther than I thought.” He suddenly itched for a map. One had hung in his mother’s bedroom for years, it’s faded lines a temptation for small hands. 

“Here’s Father Johannes.” A well fed older man, greeted this parishioners with a broad smile. When Eames approached, the smile did not dim. “A good day to you, Mr. Eames.” 

“And to you Father. This is Arthur.” 

“Well met.” The priest beamed at both of them. “You’ll want to sit up front. Good view for a special day.” 

The front pew was occupied only by Mal and Dom, who slid over gratefully to accommodate them. The service was not what Arthur was used too. He said the prayers he knew, mouthed the foreign ones, got up and down when everyone else did and tried to ignore the smell of Eames pushed in tight against him. 

The baptism came late and it was with some confusion that Arthur found himself standing before the pulpit with Dom and Mal. He could see Yusuf buried among the parishioners, looking smug. Dazed, he could do nothing, but accept when the Father asked him if he would guide the child as a godparent. 

“I’m not even Catholic.” He hissed to Dom when the priest was started to prey. 

“Don’t tell the Father that.” Dom replied placidly. 

Phillipa was anointed with holy water which she took with good grace, before they all retreated back towards the pew. 

“Hold her a moment.” Mal passed the baby to Arthur. “That’s your godchild, Arthur. No matter how far you roam, you have to come back to us now.” 

“Why?” 

“Because you’re family.” She smiled and took her seat, making no move to reclaim the baby. 

“Got you on that, didn’t she?” Eames’ smile abruptly faded. “Your hand.” 

A drop of holy water had slid from Phillipa's brow onto his finger. He watched in horror as the skin underneath started to hiss and blister. Whipping out a handkerchief, Eames hastily cleaned away the drop.

“Don’t tell Theodore.” Arthur choked out. “He’ll only want to study it.” 

“It’s nothing.” Eames grabbed his elbow and propelled him upwards for the closing hymn. 

When the Hunger took him that night, the mark paled and shined like an old burn, but refused to disappear. 

“I have to go.” He told Eames in the morning. 

“I know.” Eames started to gather his things into a bag. “We’ll need a map.” 

“We?” 

“I’ve stayed in this rundown little village my entire life.” He packed with crisp efficiency. “Sometimes, a man has to have an adventure.” 

“Where I’m going may be dangerous.” Arthur said carefully, not quite protesting. “Or not exist at all.” 

“Oh, I think it exists. Here.” A wad of paper filled his hands. “Those are the maps from the village archives. I made copy of them ages ago.” 

Arthur spread them carefully out of over the table. The lines were different from this mother’s map. He traced the edges, following his own meandering path. A tiny red dot indicated the town they stood outside even now. Experimentally, he held his hand over it. 

“Anything?” 

“No.” He snorted. “I don’t know what I was expecting.”

“Well, we can take them with us anyway.” Eames diligently rolled the maps back up. 

“You said you copied these?” 

“Wouldn’t feel right taking the originals.” 

“I’m impressed.” He watched Eames tuck them carefully into his bags. 

“Not quite as ignorant as you imagined?” 

“Something like that. Since you’ve clearly thought this out, how do you plan to keep me from killing you at night?” 

“I’m not worried.” Eames clapped him on the shoulder, a blow that sent him staggering. “I can take you. C’mon now, everyone wants to say goodbye, I’m sure.” 

Goodbye included a bestowing of vast quantities of food for Eames to consume and a thick woolen scarf for Arthur’s neck. 

“Keep each other safe.” Mal kissed Arthur on the cheek and threw her arms around Eames. 

“Take notes for me.” Yusuf thrust ink and paper into Arthur’s bag. 

“Let me walk you to the next village.” Dom insisted.

“If you walk us that far, you’ll want to keep going.” Eames pulled him into a quick manly hug. “Be well, old friend.” 

“Good bye.” Arthur whispered into Mal’s ear when she came in for one more hug. Her hands tightened around his back. 

“Come back.” She ordered, pulling back only far enough to look him in the eye. “You must.” 

“Let him go, dear heart.” Dom peeled his wife away. 

And then, at last, they were moving. The pressure in Arthur’s chest eased as they headed north. 

“How do you usually pass the time?” Eames asked after they’d walked an hour in silence. 

“What?” Arthur turned to him, bemused. 

“Well you’ve done all this walking. What’d you think about?” 

“I tried not to.” 

“I can’t believe that. Smart man like you not thinking?” 

“It’s called meditation.” He started walking again. “It’s the art of blanking your mind. Supposedly brings calm and enlightenment.” 

“Did you become enlightened?” 

“No. But it helped. Not thinking.” 

“Can’t see how.” 

“Before this, I was an orderly person-” 

“I never would have guessed.” Eames rolled his eyes. 

“Laugh if you want.” He hunched his shoulders. 

“I’m sorry, do go on.” 

Arthur let the tense silence pool between them before continuing. 

“I was methodical. I worked cataloging libraries, translating . My personal life was dedicated to keeping my cousin comfortable and happy until she married. Everything was...easy.” 

“Sounds miserable to me.” Eames kicked up a pile of leaves. “What about you, didn’t you want to get married?” 

“No.” Arthur watched him from the corner of his eye. “I’ve had long practice suppressing my desires. When this happened to me...it was the first time I wasn’t able to fight it. The Hunger...it won’t be fought off. I can’t think about something else or distract myself with work. It wants what it wants.” 

“And the meditation?” 

“I can spend the day thinking about how I’m going to turn into an animal or I can think about nothing.” 

“Well, I hope I’m a more congenial companion than your own mind.” Eames waggled his eyebrows and danced through the leaves, creating a whirlwind. 

“Perhaps.” He ducked his head to hide a smile. “What about you, don’t you have the same issue with the wolf?” 

“I think I’m luckier.” Eames grinned as if he’d spied Arthur’s smile anyway. “It’s just a part of who I am. I enjoy it. It’s freeing, just having wolf thoughts.” 

They talked amiably on through the afternoon, Eames clearly striving to keep Arthur’s mind too cluttered to think. Still, he could not help but withdraw as darkness settled in around them. 

“Let’s make camp here.” Setting down his back, Eames started to clear away the ground. “Why don’t you go for a walk?” 

“Eames-” 

“You’ll find something better than me to eat.” He shooed him off. “I’ll keep the fire burning until you get back.” 

“Don’t hold back. If I come for you. Kill me if you have too.” 

“Of course.” Eames grinned. 

“No.” Arthur grabbed his arm. “Promise me. I cannot be the death of you.” 

“I promise.” His smile faded. 

“Thank you.”

Before Eames could call him back, he ran, determined to put as much distance between him and the fire as possible. He stumbled when the Hunger stirred, unraveling inside him, but he kept on. It was enough. The Hunger made do with rabbits that night. Filled, he found the tiny dot of flame in the dark. 

“Arthur?” Eames called out. He sounded friendly, but held his skinning knife. 

“It’s all right.” He slumped before the flames. 

“You look exhausted.” 

“Always am after.” 

“I noticed.” Tugging on his cloak, Eames pulled Arthur towards him. “Sleep beside me, we’ll both be warmer for it.” 

“Both?” Arthur laid out on the waiting blankets. “I doubt that.” 

“Just sleep.” 

Too tired to do anything else, Arthur’s eyes slid closed. He groaned when Eames settled next to him, the enticing smell stirring his beleaguered mind, body too tired to act. A hand brushed over his forehead and he leaned into the gesture, before sleep took him. 

“D-d-d-amnit all!” Swears hissed through chattering teeth roused him at dawn. 

“What’s going on?” He sat up, running hands over his face and through his hair. 

“Fire won’t restart.” Eames hunched over the wood pile

“Might be because your hands are shaking. Here, give it over.” 

“F-f-ine.” 

Taking up the flint, Arthur managed to get the tinder to take. He pursed his lips and blew until they grew taller. Eames was hunched over the small flames immediately, rubbing his hands together desperately. 

“I warned you.” Sitting back on his haunches, Arthur inhaled the crisp smell of fire. 

“I didn’t know what you were warning me about! My God man, it was like you leeched the heat from my body.” Eames pressed his hands over his nose. “I knew that you were cold to the touch, but that’s ridiculous.” 

“Welcome to my world.” 

“You mean you’re always that cold?” 

“The layers aren’t for show.” 

“How do you live with it?” 

“By not being ready to die.” Arthur bit out. “Don’t pity me.”

“Guess I’ll just build a bigger fire tomorrow night then.” Eames face was blank, impossible to read. ”Might as well eat and get on our way.” 

That night, Eames built up the flames and when Arthur returned from his hunt, hauled him in close again. 

~*~ 

“I’m telling you, democracy only leads to anarchy.” Arthur huffed as they crested the hill. 

“People as a large group want stability. Giving them a say who runs their government is only likely to make things more stable. Think about it! No more worrying about getting heirs or legacies. If the old king dies, you just elect a new one.” Eames’ hands flew wildly in the air. “Or if they go mad? No more putting up with crazy kings that order executions for rats and send people off to die for delusional reasons.” 

“It’s not that I disagree with the fundamental idea. But most people aren’t educated. They’re easily swayed. All it would require is one charismatic leader-” He froze. 

“What is it?” 

“We’re close.” 

“You’ve been saying that for days.” 

“Closer.” Arthur could barely breath. “It’s as if we’re- Do you hear that?” 

They stood frozen, listening. 

“Who goes there?” Someone shouted. 

“We are only travelers.” Eames said back, holding his hands loose and open at his sides, nudging Arthur to do the same. “Passing through.” 

“Is that so?” A man dropped from the trees, an arrow nocked in his bow. “You just wandered here?” 

“And we can wander right out again.” Eames smiled charmingly. “Our apologies if we’ve trespassed.” 

The archer moved with a curiously smooth gait, approaching them arrow first. His nose twitched and rattled as he circled Arthur slowly.

“This one is wanted.” His grin revealed a set of finely sharpened teeth. “You both come with me.” 

“We really are only passing through.” Eames began again. 

“You come with me.” The arrow pushed into Arthur’s back. “We are many in the trees. Enough arrows to kill anyone, no matter what they be.” 

“Right. We’re coming.” Eames sighed. 

They saw the other archers as they walked, hidden among the trees, moving with the same fluid ease. When the trees started to thin, they peppered the hillside ducked among bushes and weeds. A manor house stood at the top, it’s windows shuttered. The roof was dotted with patrolling men. 

“Who resides here?” Eames demanded.

“You will meet him soon enough.” 

The guards parted like the Red Sea, pushing open the iron enforced oak doors for them to pass through. Inside, darkness greeted them. The torches were unlit, no natural light filtered in. Their captor maneuvered them down the corridor, down a flight of stairs. Arthur clung to the wall, feeling out each step. His breath was ragged. He coughed, trying to clear away the tightness. 

“All right?” Eames’ found his in the dark. 

“Fine.” He rasped. 

They reached the floor with relief. The guard steered them a few more feet to the left. Hands patted through their clothing, divesting them of their packs, the contents of their pockets and the knife Eames sheathed in his boot. There was a brief sound of gears grinding and the shriek of a metal bar sheathed into place. 

“Enjoy your wait.” The archer laughed to himself, his footsteps retreating. 

“Fantastic.” He used his free hand to feel around them. “Some kind of prison?” 

“Probably.” Arthur disentangled his fingers to give him more autonomy, but Eames wasn’t having it. “I’m fine.” 

“You aren’t.” Eames slumped to the floor against the bars, dragging Arthur down with him. “It’s here, isn’t it? Whatever it is.” 

“I think so.” He coughed again. “It’s like a vise.” 

“Here.” A warm hand wormed under his shirt, pressing down on his chest. “Better?” 

“Eames....” He started, but the warmth was helping, loosening the tightness. 

“You’re welcome. You know, you’re warmer here.” His fingers traced the area above Arthur’s heart. “Like normal skin.” 

“I have a theory.” He leaned his head back, concentrating on talking,not thinking about Eames’ hands on him or their predicament. “That my heart still works when I’ve the blood for it. I feel it, sometimes.” 

“Of course it still works.” Eames moved his hand over his shirt in slow circles. “Even when it doesn’t beat.” 

“That doesn’t make any sense.” 

A flood of light flared, blinding them. They jumped apart into defensive crouches. 

“Oh, he is exquisite, is he not?” A cultured voice trilled. When the spots disappeared from Arthur’s eyes, he saw the speaker, a skeleton of a man with piercing blue eyes. The torch he carried through dancing shadows across the prison floor. Arrayed behind him in a semicircle, shadowy figures with glinting eyes stood with frightening stillness. “Come here.” 

The tug in his chest intensified, forcing him to move towards the bars. One pale hand reached through to cup his chin. Fingers like ice caressed his cheeks. 

“Who are you?” He gritted out. 

“Some call me the Fisher King.” The hand tightened, nails cutting into Arthur’s skin. “You may call me Lord or sire or master.” 

“I call no man master.” He growled, trying to wrest his head away. But the man was stronger. 

“I am that which made you, the lord of all our kind. You will get down on your knees now and thank me for forgiving your poor manners.” The grip changed and Arthur sank to his knees with a hiss. 

“Get your hands off of him, you bastard!” Eames rushed towards the bars. One of the shadowy figures came forward and with no discernible effort, punched Eames hard enough to send him to the floor in a heap. 

“You have come a long way.” Fisher continued as if nothing had happened. “You must have many questions.” 

“Yes.” Nails started to peel at his skin. “Yes, sire.” They eased off. 

“Good boy.” Fisher smiled indulgently down at him. “I choose you myself to translate a very important text. I acquired it several years ago, but no one I found could adequately transcribe it for me. I know you’ll be up the task.” 

“Sire.” One of the figures, it looked to be a woman, hissed . “He is not one of us.” 

“I made him myself. “ Fisher turned on his heel. “Are you suggesting I am not capable of making one of our kind?” 

“No, sire!” The woman shrank back. “Only I can still smell the stink of life on him. He has not bloodied himself.” 

“After all this time?” Fisher frowned drawing Arthur back up and leaning in close to study him. “You have not partaken of human blood?” 

“No, sire.” 

“Unbelievable.” Frowning he traced the edges of Arthur’s mouth. He drew him impossibly closer. “I must taste this for myself.” 

Arthur only barely managed not to cry out as Fischer’s teeth sank into his bottom lip. 

“No wonder you took so long in finding me.” Fisher licked Arthur’s brackish blood off his lip, fingers still locked around his jaw. “You’ve muddled through this half-life too long.” 

“We cannot have him look at the text if has not yet become one of us.” The man that had punched Eames insisted.

“I know that.” Fisher snapped. “It’s easily remedied. We will leave him here with his friend tonight.” 

“No!” Arthur protested, then cringed. 

“Oh? Is that how it lies?” Fisher’s icy gaze swept over him. “And after we just had our first lesson in defiance.” 

“I’m sorry, sire.” 

“No, you’re not. But you will be.” If his gaze had been ice, his smile was warmed by the flames of Devil. “For that, you will stay here for a week. Six days to let his rotting flesh turn your stomach by day, your blood lust to torture you by night.” 

“What are you?” Arthur stared up at him in disgust. “What kind of monster have you made me?” 

“That is what I hope you will tell me.” Fisher turned away, his retinue following him and the light away. “When you are ready to take up the text.” 

In the ensuing darkness, Arthur crawled to Eames, shaking him gently. 

“I’m awake.” He slurred. “Thought it best to stay put.”

“Can you sit up?” 

Together they managed to get him leaning against the bars. There was no blood that Arthur could find, only a hot patch of skin at the top of his head that promised a spectacular bump. 

“You must kill me.” Arthur said once he was sure that Eames would be all right. 

“Not this again.”

“You promised me. If it came down to the two of us-” 

“I won’t. I renege my promise.” 

“Eames, they mean to leave me here. Night will come. There is no where else for me to hunt.” 

“Then you’ll just have to practice some self-control.” 

“I cannot.” 

“I believe that you can.” He groped and found Arthur’s hand. “The full moon rises in three nights. If you can keep yourself at bay for two nights, I can use my strength on the third to escape.” 

“It’s not possible.” Arthur sat back on his heels, staring into the black at where he knew Eames face must be. 

“And I say that it is.” The words wrapped around him. “Arthur, you must try.” 

“I wish you hadn’t come.” He said into the darkness, his thumb rubbing circles on the top of Eames’ hand. 

“It’s been good fun.” Eames laughed haltingly. “I enjoyed myself these past few weeks.” 

“Fun isn’t worth losing your life over.” 

“If you’d left without me, I would have followed.” 

“You’re an idiot.” 

“Perhaps, I’m a fool.” Eames agreed. “But if I am than it is you that made me foolish.”

“Me?” 

“I told you once I was a sinner.” 

“I remember.” Arthur tensed.

“This.” Eames leaned forward and tenderly kissed him, minding the torn skin of his lower lip. “This is my sin.” 

“Oh.” Arthur’s breath caught and stuttered. 

“When I saw you sitting in Theo’s kitchen, I knew.” Eames didn’t pull away, his words caressing Arthur’s skin. “Before I knew your name or what you were, I knew that I had to stay with you.” 

“How?” He whispered. 

“How does the rain fall or the sun set? I just did.” 

“Your smell.” Arthur felt the words tumble from him, out of his control. “It’s like a drug.” 

“So you sin as I do?” Eames asked him, his voice hoarse. “Don’t say things to placate me because you think we’ll die.” 

“I told you before that I never intended to marry.” He took up Eames’ hand again. “I do not want to be your death.” 

“Then don’t.” Eames brought their joined fingers to his mouth, pressing them to his mouth. “You could have killed me any number of nights when we journeyed and you did not.” 

“There were other things to distract me. Closer meals.” He shook his head. “You don’t understand, when it overtakes me, I’m no longer myself.” 

“Then I’ll just have to remind you.” 

Arthur could think of no other arguments. Instead he drew their joined hands to his own mouth and kissed Eames’ knuckles, not caring if he left a smear of blood behind. 

“Darling.” Eames said softly. 

“Don’t.” He let go of Eames’ hand, a stab of pain shooting through him. He crawled backwards across the floor. “It’s coming.” 

The Hunger tore through him. His nails scratched uselessly at the cold stone floor, searching for something to brace himself against. One hand found one of the iron bars of their cell and wrapped around it. The pain washed over him, using him, leaving him its creature.

“Arthur, speak to me.” He could suddenly hear Eames speaking as he must have been all along. “You all right?” 

“Nothing about this is all right.” Then winced as his teeth cut into his tongue. He had never tried to communicate before when the Hunger rode him. 

“You have a lisp.” Eames barked a laugh, but what Arthur heard was the pounding of a heart. “It’s delightful, say something else.” 

“I’m hungry.” He moved across the floor, hands searching for Eames’ body. 

“I know you are.” Eames said cautiously. “But you’re stronger than your hunger.” 

“Am I?” Saliva dripped over his lips as he found his prize. 

“Fight it.” The growl took him off guard. “Arthur, you’re stronger than it.” 

“It is me.” He said, confused. “This is what I am. Hunger.” 

“You aren’t. You’re not a beast, you’re a man.” Strong hands gripped his biceps, shaking him. “You’re mine. Tell the fucking Hunger it can’t have you.” 

“Have me?” His mind was clouded by the beat of Eames’ heart, so steady and promising. “I want....I want a taste.” 

“Then taste.” Hands fell away. “If you can stop yourself from killing me.” 

“Yesss.” It should have been hideous, but Arthur only knew that he was being given what he wanted. 

He burrowed his face into Eames’ neck, teeth poised to bite. Then the smell hit him. The smell that had tantalized him for months, made sleeping next to Eames exquisite torture. It was in his very blood, calling to him, begging him to taste. 

He hesitated. 

“What is it?” Eames asked cautiously. 

“Tell me something.” He rasped. “Anything. A story, a history.” 

“Arthur?” 

“I’m here. For now.” The Hunger surged through him and he closed his eyes against it, riding it out, his nose pressed to Eames’ neck. 

“When I was a boy,” Eames started out tentatively. “not yet old enough for long pants, my father and mother took me aside and explained that we were different from everyone else. That come the time of the full moon, not everyone became wolves. Until then, I’d assumed the world was full of people like me.... Is this all right?” 

“Don’t stop.” Arthur gritted his teeth. 

“Right.” Eames shifted, arm twining around Arthur’s shoulders. “It seemed so natural to me. When the moon showed her full face, running with my parents, uncles and aunts. I was the only cub. The end of their line. There was talk then that something might have happened to the moon, making her turn away from her children. They spoke of her like she was a spirit or a goddess.” 

Arthur only nodded, his reality narrowed to the rise and fall of Eames’ voice and pulse of his blood. 

“I always guessed it was less to do with the moon and more to do with what I told you before. There’s no more room for creatures like us. The world is shrinking and rationalizing and soon we will be only legends used to spook children into behaving.” He sighed, shifting against the bars. “But that’s all things I’ve come to know. As a cub, I thought only how sad it was that no one else knew what we knew. What it felt like to run through a winter’s night, smelling every little thing, the warmth of pack mates pressed around you. How lonely, they must be. For years, I truly believed I was better off. Then my parents died, my aunts and uncles. Age is unkind to us and death often comes early.” 

Eames hand rubbed circles over Arthur’s back, another counterpoint to the Hunger. 

“And then you were alone.” He said, nicking his tongue on his teeth. 

“Yes. And I learned how right I had been. That living without the pack was a terrible thing. I scoured the woods, searching for others of my kind, but I’m not like you. Not as adventurous. Couldn’t leave my home for long.” 

He went on, telling Arthur about the loneliness and how it abated with the coming of the Cobbs, but never disappeared entirely. When his throat tired, he let his voice drop to a whisper. Every second, Arthur warred with the Hunger. Every moment, he fought the urge to sink his teeth into Eames’ skin and slack his thirst. 

“You’re trembling.” Eames said hoarsely. 

“It’s over.” Arthur nearly wept as the Hunger retreated with a sharp wrench. He’d never gone the night without appeasing it before and a part of him had feared that the torture would be endless, that unfulfilled it wouldn’t retreat with the dawn. “We survived it.” 

The kiss took him wholly by surprise. The Hunger had healed his lip and he was able to enjoy the touch. Eames melted against him, a long line of heat and desire. 

“Not now.” Arthur pulled away. “We must sleep while we can.”

“Sleep?” Moaned Eames, going in for another kiss. “You must be mad.” 

“If we don’t sleep now, we will have no strength for the coming night and I have no illusions that it will be easier than the one just passed.” He evaded Eames reach. “Use my cloak as a pillow, yours as a blanket.”

“And what will you do, freeze?” 

“It will be like that first night. I’ll suck the warmth from you.” 

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re an idiot?” Eames stripped off his coat and threw it over them, pulling Arthur against him. “We may as well both freeze together.”

Too tired to resist, Arthur burrowed in closer. “Go to sleep, Mr. Eames.”

Despite the rock beneath him, Arthur slept heavily. His dreams were plagued by shadows, but even they could not stir him. He woke to the sound of Eames relieving himself in a far corner of the cell before returning the last caught warmth under the coat. 

“I wish I could see the sun.” He muttered.

“So do I.” Arthur turned, wincing at his aching muscles.

“I’m beginning to become sympathetic to your Hunger.” Eames mused. “I could eat a horse.” 

“Are you lightheaded?” Panic seared through him.

“A little, but it’s nothing, really.” 

“You cannot lose consciousness tonight.” Arthur ordered. “You must stay awake to fend me off.” 

“I didn’t have to fend last night. You curled right up against me, docile as anything.” 

“That wasn’t easy.” He snapped. “You can’t imagine- And what were you thinking, offering me a taste? I would have killed you.” 

“No, you would not. You did not.” 

“You tempted fate.” 

“So you say.” Eames said steadily. “But I’d do the same again.” 

“Do not.” Arthur warned. “I don’t know that I can stop myself again.” 

“Why do you have so little faith in yourself?” 

“It’s nothing to do with faith. It’s practicality.” He sat up, keeping the coat draped around him. “I’m concerned that we’ve had no visitors.” 

“It’s a good sign.” Eames countered. “They’re cocky. They think no one can escape them which means they don’t know what I am.” 

“Are you sure the wolf can break the bars?” 

“I’m strong in that form. Much stronger than an ordinary wolf.” 

They discussed various plans, Arthur throwing problems before Eames, who rapidly worked out solutions. Occasionally, Eames stomach would interject a complaint, but he said no more about it. 

“Now.” Arthur warned when the first pangs were upon him. He threw back the coat, intending to move away again, but Eames arms caught him and held, vise-like. “Dammit, let me go!” 

“No.” Eames kissed his forehead. “Stay with me.” 

Arthur’s protests faded into the writhing pain of the Hunger’s coming.

“Almighty hell, it’s worse.” His eyes slammed shut against the thirst. “It’s never been this bad.” 

“I know, I know. I’m sorry, darling, only stay with me.” Eames murmured. 

“I’m here...brimstone and damnation, I’m here.” 

“My voice is raw from last night and this afternoon. You’ll have to do the talking for once.” 

“Can’t...concentrate.” 

“Where were you born? You’ve never said. You speak German with an accent.” 

He knew the answer. It was there....swarmed in clouds and when he finally recalled it was with a soft sigh of relief. 

“Bombay. My father was with the East India Company.” 

“India...that must have been incredible. What was it like?” 

“It was what I knew.” He tried to concentrate on faded memories instead of the vivid present of Eames’ arms around him, promising an instant meal. “There weren’t many other children, so I made friends with the servants. They taught me Hindi and told me stories while they worked. It was warm much of the year. I would sit outside with our cook, grinding chickpeas for flour, listening to stories about Kali, Shiva...gods of every kind. That’s what I remember most.” 

“And somewhere in there you learned about birthing?” 

“My mother. Her maternal line were all midwives. She took me with her when I was young enough not to be noticed and old enough to be a help. Father hated that she kept practicing and most of the other British women wouldn’t have it. So she mostly helped the locals. The ones that would let her, anyway.” 

“She sounds like a formidable lady.” 

“She was.” He swallowed hard, pushing down the want. “When my father died, we went back to England. That was when my cousin came to live with us.” 

“You keep mentioning her, but you never say her name.” 

“Ariadne.” His fingernails bit into his palm. “Her name is Ariadne.” 

“Pretty?” 

“Yes.” He remembered how close she had been, how he had nearly consumed her. “And smart. After Mother died, I worked for the crown on diplomatic missions, scut work mostly. Translating forms and speeches. Ariadne insisted on traveling with me.” 

“Adventurous girl. I see now why it wasn’t so painful for you to dedicate yourself to your work. “ Eames laughed, it rumbled over Arthur’s skin in pinpricks. “I imagined you in some boring lord’s library laboring tirelessly.” 

“That was your failure of imagination, not mine.” 

“And did she meet a suitable match?” 

“It would depend on what you considered suitable.” He licked his lips. “I approved. He made her happy.” 

“So it wasn’t a conventional choice?” 

“Hardly.” 

Through fits and starts as the Hunger pushed against him, Arthur told him about Ariadne and Saito. How the wealthy Japanese trader had met them at a dance thrown by the English Ambassador to the Ottoman Empire. He’d engaged Arthur in conversation, charming him with the possibility of job offer that would lead to travel across Asia. Arthur had naturally introduced him to Ariadne and found himself dismissed. The two had chattered away like old friends, Ariadne pressing him to teach her phrases in his language, laughing as she stumbled over them. When the music began, they spent the entire night dancing though her card had been full of other names. Their courtship had lingered over six months to the disgust of the other expatriates. Arthur found himself barred from every kind of polite company until he could make his cousin ‘see sense’. Instead, he encouraged the blossoming relationship. 

“She was happy.” He said, wrung out and leaning hard against Eames’ side. “I would have given anything up for that. When I was attacked that night...I assumed it was from some other dissenting party.” 

“They would resort to physical violence?” Eames shifted, moving them impossibly closer together. 

“Well, clearly they didn’t though I wouldn’t have put it past them.” He frowned. “We were of little consequence. Orphans with no fortune left to them, only the salary I drew from the crown for my services. No great lord would marry her. Saito could provide for her, show her the world. But no one saw it that way. She might as well have been courted by an animal, the way they ostracized her.” 

“People fear what they don’t understand.” Eames breath caressed his ear. “Did they marry?” 

“The date was set before I left.” He shuddered, leaning away. “I told them in my letter not to delay it for my return.” 

Unable to stand the silence that followed, Arthur plunged on, talking aimlessly about his travels after he’d fled. He described the regions he’d passed through on foot, the trees and the weather. It was dull stuff, but it was better than the alternative. When the unseen dawn washed his hunger away, he slumped against his companion. 

“It’s passed.” 

“Well done.” Eames laughed, exhausted and light headed from hunger. “Two nights, you resisted it.” 

“And you’re certain tonight is the moon?”

“She’s in my blood, calling the tides.” Eames said darkly. “Even here, I sense her. They cannot take the moon from me, no matter how deep in the earth they bury us.” 

“Then tonight, we will be free from this place.” Arthur sighed in relief. 

“What about your answers? The call to come here?” 

“To hell with it.” He tilted his head to press a kiss into Eames’ neck. 

“That’s the spirit.” Eames laughed, shaking the darkness from them for the moment. 

They shared their cold makeshift bed again, but sleep found neither of them nor did they have much left to say. Eames moved to kiss Arthur occasionally, who gently, but determinedly rebuffed him. They lay too exposed to the enemy. Instead, they shared the silence, dozing occasionally and waiting. 

“My turn.” Eames rose from their shared swoon. He stripped briskly, bundling the clothes together with long practice. 

“I wish I could see it.” Arthur surprised himself by saying. 

“One day, you shall though it’s not appealing.” Eames leaned down and kissed him. “For good luck.” 

Then there were only sounds in the dark, cracks and joints reforming. The Hunger crested in the middle and Arthur missed the rest. When he was coherent, the wolf nudged him before heading to the bars and putting his massive shoulders to them. The ancient bars creaked in protest. Arthur rose to stand over the wolf, putting his hands to the metal and pushing, feeding the Hunger’s frustration into it. Slowly, the bars bent outward, groaning and rattling. 

When there was enough room, the wolf slipped through the bars. Arthur followed, nearly catching himself between the widened bars. Together they felt along the walls until they found the staircase. No guards came. Eames’ had been right, Fisher’s cockiness was his downfall. 

They crept up the stairs to find the door locked. Another combined push broke the lock and sent them sprawling into the hallway. The Hunger reached out, searching for prey, finding none but the wolf. He lunged for it, but Eames was already making his way down the corridor. Missing him by a bare inch, he regained himself and followed. 

The darkness eventually relented, a sliver of moonlight creeping under a doorway. This one opened without a sound into a room that was covered in dust. Pots hung in neat rows, cobwebs clinging to them. Clearly the manor’s occupants had no use for cookery. As they had hoped, there was a backdoor. Arthur opened it cautiously, listening for a betraying heartbeat. 

Eames nudged his hand with a wet nose and tilted his head towards the woods. They were only a short run away and once there, the two of them could easily evade the archers. Nodding, Arthur started across the grass. 

And fell immediately to his knees. Eames circled him, whining quietly. 

“I can’t.” He pressed hard on his chest. The persuasive tugging that had led him here returned twenty fold, a stabbing unrelenting pain. 

Eames nudged him hard. 

“There weren’t guards.” He forced out. “Because I cannot leave.” 

The wolf whimpered, pacing around him. 

“Go!” He hissed. “You, they will kill, me they have a purpose for. Go. Get help if you must, but for God’s sake, go now!” 

With one last whine, the wolf licked his face and bounded off into the woods. Arthur watched until the last fragment of the shadow disappeared, before turning back to the house. 

Fisher stood in the kitchen door, watching him with a faint smile of amusement. 

“Did you set your friend free?” He laughed. “How adorable.” 

“Sire, I-” 

“I’ve decided I cannot wait for you get over your morals. The text awaits.” Fisher grasped his neck and hauled him back inside. “When the time comes, you will be hungry enough to join us properly.” 

~*~ 

_On the 29th Day of the Fifth Month of the Third Year Since the Change_

_It has been many months since I have taken up this Journal, but I have often thought about it. When last I wrote, I still dwelt in darkness, seeking Truth with a fading, flickering torch. Now I stand in the Light of Knowledge.. Here is what has come to pass while this book lay fallow in my packs:_

_In the fading days of winter, I departed from Cairo. Suspicions had worn out my welcome. In some crumbling book, I had found the faintest of hints to my condition connecting it with Wallachia, a sliver of the Ottoman Empire, lodged between the Carpathian mountains and several rivers. The journey was long and dull. Without anything else to entertain me, I decided against moving alone. I found a party setting out in my general direction led by a dark haired royal youth by the name of Vlad Drakuyla. A prisoner of the Turks only recently released and making his way home to claim his throne._

_I became entranced by him. He rode at the front of our retinue, straight backed, one hand on the reins, the other wrapped around the hilt of his blade. When we stopped in the evenings, he seemed to resent our inability to see in the dark. The passions that drove him were clearly tireless masters._

_Tied as I was to his retinue, I could not feast as I would have liked. The meal I took in Cairo did not last long. I slipped away while the others ate and found my poor repast in the trees. Perhaps I was purposely careless, I cannot say. I knew him to keen -eyed and intelligent and yet, I did not think to hide these ventures, did not wait until he slept._

_I am still not entirely sure what night it was that he followed me. I cannot recall feeling watched at any one point. It matters not. He waited for me to return and crept up on me, blocking my exit from the tent._

_“Explain.” He demanded without elucidation. Another man, I would have killed. But not him._

_I told him. The death of my master, the theft of an ancient text and the ritual I performed at the side of the river. The visions I had seen. He listened, face expressionless, when I described the djinn that had kissed me in sorrow and stole away my breath. Listened as I explained the blood thirst that drove me from my home to a new life. When I described the night I took a human life, he leaned forward, his only show of interest. I lingered over the details._

_“Why do you travel to Wallachia?” He asked when I had finished._

_“The last documentation of someone like me was linked to that land. I have met no others.”_

_He left immediately after, leaving me to wonder at my fate._

_In the morning, it was as if nothing had come to pass. As before, he treated me with diffident disinterest, keeping his council to himself. When I returned to my tent that night, he was kneeling among my bed-clothes._

_“Make me like you.” He commanded._

_“I know not how.”_

_“Perform the ritual, feed me the potion.”_

_“There is nothing that remains of it. No way to recreate it. It was my master’s making and he left behind no recipe.”_

_He searched my eyes for lies and finding none, frowned._

_“I need this power and it is in your blood.” He cocked his head to the side. “What if I drank of yours?”_

_The thought of becoming victim rather than predator was not one I found appealing, not even for him. Yet, I took up a knife and sliced across my wrist to show him the thin dribble._

_“That is all that remains.”_

_“Perhaps that is all that is needed.”_

_Before I could protest, he seized my wrist and lapped away what little the wound provided. The effect was instant, his eyes rolling wildly back in his head. He collapsed to the ground, shaking. He looked to be dying. If he died in my tent, suspicion would already be set upon me. I decided to make the most of it and bent my teeth to their purpose. His blood tasted no different than anyone else._

_When his heart ceased, I began to pack. I had no plans and felt no little regret. I had hoped to make an ally and a friend of the boy. Melancholy, I moved slowly, often stopping to sigh over the shell left behind. Thanks to these maudlin observations, I caught the flicker of his eyes. It seemed impossible._

_The dark eyes that opened to meet mine were still fierce, but now they held a familiar chill. All unwittingly, we had together struck on the creation of our kind. This recipe of our blood and the draining. Those first few days, I taught him the way of taking what he needed from the forests. When he could no longer be denied, we choose the least of our traveling companions and I showed him the thrall. He took to it instantly, stiling the man with his eyes and draining him without a sound._

_That was three months ago. We have since reached his homeland, where he will reign. I stand in the shadows of his throne, an advisor, a mentor. Our friendship runs deeper than any imagine, sustaining me. There are no others of our kind here and I quaver to think what might have become of me if I had not discovered him. Alone, walking this earth for boundless uncountable years._

_That brings me to the heart of the matter. The purpose I have discovered. The answer to the riddle of the ritual, the djinn...even Vlad. I am to be the Progenitor of a new world order. With my abilities and Vlad’s power, we will rise up over the mortal world and redefine humanity. Rulers that cannot die will sit on the throne of every nation and each of them will bow to us._

_This is-_

Arthur set down his quill, his shaking hand threatening to splatter ink across his careful papers. The sunset lingered in the window, painting the tapestried walls in golden hues. He rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand, trying to ignore how loosely his skin hung from his arm. In preparation for the nightly ritual, he dribbled sand over the ink and neatly stacked the pages together, bundling them with the crumbling journal. 

The lock on his door tumbled open. It was one of the women this time, the one that always wore blue. Arthur knelt next to the table, keeping his eyes carefully trained on the floor. She took up his notes and book to bear away to Fisher until the morning. Once, he had resisted getting to his knees for her. She had taken up a riding crop from her stocking and worked him until Fisher had arrived, peeling her away without a backward look. 

She went from the room, but he did not rise. The ritual was not yet over. The woman in blue returned, carrying a sleeping girl in her arms. She threw the child to the floor. 

“If you do not have her, I will.” She licked the girl’s cheek and smirked. 

He gave her no reaction, not even a twitch. He waited until the door closed and the lock slid into place again before rising to his feet. In the beginning, he had paced, but he’d grown too weak for such exercise. Instead, he pushed his chair to the window, gazing through the bars. Behind him, the girl woke and began to cry. 

“Stay where you are.” He warned, not bothering to turn around. “I won’t hurt you, but you must not come near me. ” 

He used to try to help them escape, none had succeeded and now he lacked the strength. In the morning, someone would come for her and she would doubtless be the others’ dinner. His thoughts wandered over what he had discovered that day, even as he listened to the girl bang uselessly on the door. 

What would Fisher make of it? The man already styled himself as a Lord, turning selected subjects into creatures like himself, calling them his court. It was likely that he would take the Journal as suggestion rather than the long curdled madness of loneliness. Arthur wrapped his arms around himself, trying not to imagine a world of his kind marching against humanity. 

The sun finished it’s descent, bringing on the Hunger. He was dimly aware of the pain, but months of practice eased him from his body. He slipped into the half-sleep state that allowed him to repress his appetite. The longer he starved, the quicker he was able to find this peace, akin to the sacred space he had created with Mal an eternity ago. 

Dimly, he was aware of the girl trying the door again. Her heartbeat increasing with effort. He started to rise from his chair, then sat abruptly down again. 

“I am not a beast, I am a man.” He whispered, taking up his mantra. “I am stronger than the Hunger and it cannot have me.” 

“Help me.” She was cried. “Have you no compassion?” 

“I am not a beast, I am a man.” He tucked his knees under his chin, wrapping his arms around his legs. “ I am stronger than the Hunger and it cannot have me.” 

“What do you say?” She wept. “Do you speak the words of the Devil?” 

“I am not a beast, I am a man. I am stronger than the Hunger and it cannot have me.” 

The mantra soothed him, pushed her pleadings away. He repeated it until she ceased to try to reach him. When all was quiet, he only watched the moon, drifting, waiting for dawn and the return of what was left of his sanity. In the darkest part of the night, he stirred, sure that he saw something move across the fields. Most likely one of the perimeter guards making rounds. He watched until he was sure that the flicker was gone, then retreated back into himself. 

The sun unraveled him from his chair. He stretched under it’s warmth, pathetically grateful that the seemingly endless winter had at last given way to the spring. The girl was huddled in a corner, watching him. 

“Someone will come for you soon.” He warned. “Run, if you can. They will kill you regardless, so you might as well try to escape.” 

“Why not run yourself then?” She asked bitterly. 

“I cannot leave.” He moved his chair back to his desk and got down on his knees beside it. 

The lock rattled and the door opened. Fisher stepped into the room and Arthur suppressed a groan. He would not return to his work then. The days that Fisher came were filled with idle interrogation and vicious pain. 

“I see you have ignored another fine meal.” Fisher sighed and picked the girl up by her hair, holding her off the floor until her eyes met his. She went limp, swinging from his grasp with glassy eyes. “As impressive as your fortitude is, I find myself growing weary of it.” 

“Yes, Sire.” He mumbled. 

“I read the pages from yesterday.” Setting the girl back on her feet, where she swayed numbly, Fisher turned his attention fully on Arthur. “Fascinating, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes, Sire.” 

“Have you found the name of the writer yet?” 

“No, Sire.” 

“Pity.” His boots entered Arthur’s field of vision. “You’re not holding anything back from me, are you?” 

“No, Sire.” 

“Look at me.” 

Reluctantly, Arthur looked up. Fisher beamed down at him. 

“I’ve never actually seen one of our kind die of starvation.” He stroked a hand over Arthur’s head, then frowned as hair came away in his fingers. “Do you know why?” 

“No, Sire.” 

“Neither do I.” Fisher brushed the strands of hair from his fingers. “It has never interested me to find out until now. How many pages have you left to translate?” 

Before Arthur could answer, Fisher head cocked sharply. 

“Do you hear that?” 

“Hear what?” Arthur blinked then hastily added. “Sire.” 

A muffled yell penetrated the stone walls. 

“We’re under attack!” Fisher growled. “Who would dare?” 

He disappeared from the room in a blur. Arthur rose unsteadily to his feet. In his haste, Fisher had left the door unlocked. 

“Go!” He yelled at the girl, but the thrall held her. Cursing, he staggered to his feet, leaning heavily against the wall. 

The halls were unfamiliar to him, having only passed through them once under Fisher’s heavy hand before being locked away with his work. He listened carefully and walked away from the sounds of battle. Clinging to the handrail, he made it down a set of stairs into a carpeted hall. The luxury of it affirmed his choice. Soundlessly, he opened each door. There were several opulent bedrooms, a bathing room. At the end of the hall, he found his prize. 

Fisher’s room, it could belong to no other, spread before him. The bed that dominated it clothed in royal purple. Trappings of nobility hung from every wall and crevice, even the plush carpet was woven with lions rampant. Arthur looked for obvious hiding places and found none. He checked the walls for safes and under the bed for a lock box to no avail. Frustrated and weary, he allowed himself a moment’s rest on the bed. 

One pillow looked slightly higher than the other. In disbelief, he cast aside the pillow and pulled up the sheet. The precious manuscript and Arthur’s careful translation sat pristine on the mattress. Most likely to ensure no one else ventured to touch them while Fisher slept. Hastily, Arthur stripped the pillow of it’s case and put the book and papers in inside, knotting the top to make it easier to hold. 

Back in the hall, he found another staircase, holding the unwieldy package tightly to his chest as he made his way down. By the time he’d reached the bottom, he could see the battle waging through the dining hall. Armored men holding massive broadswords were pressing into the room, Fisher’s court forming a ragged line, holding their ground through pure physical strength and thrall. Some soldiers had already fallen prey to the hypnotic gaze, turning on their companions. Swords flashed and the court ducked underneath them, pinning soldiers to the wall and ripping into their throats with sharp teeth. Fisher himself was standing on top of the long table, laughing. 

“Foolish tin soldiers.” He was practically dancing. “Come to give us a feast!” 

“Now!” Someone yelled from behind the armored men. “ Now or perish!” 

The soldiers as one, dropped their hands to their waists and pulled flagons from their belts. Still fighting back the shrieking hoard of Fisher’s army, they unstoppered the bottles and poured the contents on their enemy. 

Screams rent through the hall and Arthur watched in disbelief as the woman in blue broke away, running towards Fisher. Her face lay in ruin, melting over her dress and her hands slid slickly on the table as she attempted to haul herself up. The worst hit went down in gory puddles, but most of them scrabbled onwards still haphazardly attacking. A few broke away, joining the woman in blue to reach Fisher. 

Their Lord sneered down at them, backing away from their grasps. The soldiers were making quick work of the dissolving creatures, wading through the pools of blood and muck. As they reached the table, one of them threw another flagon at Fisher. 

“I am not caught so easily.” The Lord hissed, stepping neatly aside. He leaped upwards to land on the crossbeams above the hall. “I am made of tougher stuff.” 

“Don’t let him get away!” The cry rose out. 

Arrows rained as Fisher danced, one clattering to the ground near Arthur. He snatched it up, testing the tip and hissing as he found it coated in holy water. He waited, watching in the shadows until Fisher was directly overhead. 

“Sire.” Arthur called. “This way! We’ll cover your escape.” 

Fisher landed neatly, eyes widening as he spotted Arthur in the shadows. He lunged forward to grab at him, intent on what, Arthur did not know or care. He lashed out with the last of his strength, burying the poisoned arrow in Fisher’s chest. 

“Damn you!” Fisher lurched forward, but it was too late. He had stood still for too long and arrows riddled him until he collapsed at Arthur’s feet, a stunned look still on his face. 

“Behead him.” Arthur snapped as the first cautious soldier approached. “He can still heal from this.” 

The men obligingly raised his sword, hacking at Fisher’s neck until the head separated. Arthur restrained himself from kicking it, if only because he was sure he would fall over. Nor did he have the moisture to spit upon it. The omnipresent tension in his chest eased and he drew in a long pleased breath.

“You must be, Arthur.” The soldier turned back to his brethren. “Tell the pushy loud one that we found his friend! That ought to quiet him.” 

“You were looking for me?” Arthur asked, sitting back down when his legs threatened to give way. His eyes still locked on Fisher’s head. 

“Aye. Glad to take the job too. Everyone knew this place were witched. Captain Brandon, at your service.” He held out a gloved hand which Arthur shook gratefully, if weakly. “Nice job with that stab. I thought he was going to take you for sure. You don’t look fit to walk a straight line.” 

“Where is he? Move aside!” 

“Here now, lad.” Captain Brandon stepped aside with a wink at Arthur. “Stop fussing. We found him.” 

From the muck and crowd, Eames emerged. He was dressed better than Arthur had ever seen him, in a clean blue uniform with shining brass buttons, the ragged fur coat nowhere in sight. Arthur clutched at his package, his stomach all in knots. 

“Arthur, my god.” Eames came to a skidding halt in front of him. “What did he do to you?” 

“They told me you were dead.” He stared at the man in front of him, finding his memory sorely lacking in comparison to the real thing. “The day after you escaped they brought a wolf pelt to my room and hung it on the wall.” 

“But you didn’t believe them?” 

“No. The coloring was all wrong. I made them think they’d fooled me.” 

“I’m going to hug you now.” Eames warned. “Don’t you dare shatter on me.” 

“I’m strong.” He assured him. “Strong enough to endure that.” 

Eames sunk to his knees and pulled him into his arms. 

“Darling.” Eames whispered into his ear. “I missed you.” 

“I’m hungry.” He buried his face in Eames’ neck. “Damnably hungry.” 

“Of course.” Laughter rained over him like a healing balm. Eames stood in a fluid motion, bearing him upwards. “We’ll get you fed back up.” 

“I can walk.” He protested, fumbling with the stuffed pillowcase.

“You don’t look like you can, so you’ll have to follow my whims for the moment.” 

“That’s taking advantage of my weakened state.” 

“I’ll make it up to you later.” 

Eames picked his way through the corpses, passing soldiers hacking at the remaining solid bodies and throwing the heads into bags. One rolled past Eames feet and he jumped neatly over it, barely jarring his cargo. 

“They should burn them.” Arthur advised, before passing out. 

~*~ 

Something was burning. He sat bolt upright, sending a pile of blankets cascading off of him. It was dark and for a moment, he feared that Fisher had covered his window again. Then he remembered. It seemed like a dim dream. He was in a tent. The last of the afternoon sun penetrated the fabric, allowing him to pick out shapeless detail on the other side. Lumbering bodies moved past, their easy voices drifting to him. Everything inside was saturated with Eames’ unique odor. He resisted the urge to bury his face in the blankets. 

The once fine cloak lay with the other rags of his clothes in a pile. Someone had redressed him ill-fitting pants and a baggy shirt that was naggingly familiar. The pillowcase, still knotted, lay on top of the pile. He was about to reach for it when the tent flap opened, letting in a burst of light. Instinctively, he shrank back. 

“Just me.” Eames let the fabric fall, cutting off the light. “How you feeling?” 

“Fine. Tell me about this army. Where did they come from?” He demanded, swaying a little.

“You aren’t fine.” 

“Tell me.” Arthur narrowed his eyes. 

“I wasn’t going to leave you there. So I got help. Hired some mercenaries.” 

“Where did you get the money for something like that?” 

“Think the full story can wait.” Eames held out his hand. “C’mon then. Sunset just started and you’ll need feeding.” 

“I can’t hunt.” He allowed Eames to pull him close.

“I figured. Can you walk?” 

“Don’t you dare try and carry me again.” Warned Arthur, leaning heavily against him. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” 

Half-walking, half-stumbling, they made it outside into a busy encampment. Aside from a few cheerful greetings, no one tried to stop them. Smoke rose in lush, thoughtless clouds from their fires. He covered his nose with his hand, but the stink of roasting meat lingered. 

“Just a bit longer now.” Eames said brightly. 

“Liar.” 

“Perhaps.” Eames laughed, but it did take several long painful minutes for them to clear the encampment and get into the surrounding forest. 

“It’s so green.” Arthur winced at his own inanity, but the lush growth took him off guard. The woods of his memory lay in perpetual autumn, unfocused and filled with leafy fire. 

“Seven months.” Eames sounded strained, but when Arthur looked up, his face was carefully blank. “That’s how long it’s been.” 

“I know. I had a window.” The short walk had tired him and he wanted nothing more than to lie down. “I counted the moons.” 

“Here we are.” Eames led them into a clearing. A dozy looking cow grazed idly. “Ready meal.” 

“Where-” 

“The unit brings some livestock with them. I borrowed this one.” 

“It’s not borrowing if you can’t return it.” 

“Shame that.” Eames winked at him. “Good thing I didn’t tell them about borrowing it.” 

“You stole it.” 

“Just a little.” 

“You stole something from mercenaries?” 

“I’m paying them. Sort of. They’ll get over it. Found all sorts of pretty jewels and gold in the house. Should cover it.” Eames shrugged. “Anyway, you need to eat. You’re barely more than skin dragged over bone.” 

“Poetic.” He wrenched himself away, standing unaided. 

“He starved you?’ 

“No...yes. I resisted. He wanted me to kill.” 

“You...that long? How?” 

Arthur could hear the admiration in Eames voice and it made him wince. He rushed to correct him. 

“It was selfish. I mean, at first I wanted to make a point. By the end of the first week, I would have eaten anything.” Shivers took him and he let them, ignoring the cold. “But I was translating the book. The code wasn’t hard...not really a code at all- anyway. The man who wrote it didn’t know much, really. One of the few things he was clear on was how he changed once he consumed human blood. What I am now...it’s a half-state. I’m caught. Half-here. Half...” 

“Dead?”

“I don’t know.” He made a rough annoyed noise. “Wish I did. What I do know is that if I take in human blood, I’ll lose whatever grip I have here. Fisher had given over to it entirely. I don’t know what he was like before, but I doubt it was so monstrous. It’s possible that once he was a good man.” 

“I can’t imagine him ever-” 

“It.” Arthur cut him off. “Whatever Fisher was when we met him, it wasn’t human anymore.” 

“You’re human.” 

“And I intend to stay that way, so step backwards.” 

Prudently, Eames retreated. The Hunger hit with it’s usual breaking intensity and Arthur fought to stay standing. When it passed, he could still smell, feel, hear Eames behind him, but the cow directly in front of him remained a more tempting target. Staggering and stumbling, he looked into the cow’s wet indifferent eye. It ignored him for a beat and he feared the worst, but it quickly relaxed into thrall. 

“Good girl.” He muttered and unable to hold back a second longer, dug his teeth into her neck. 

Blood gushed into his mouth, dribbling over his chin. He sucked desperately, his stomach roiling. The weakness faded gradually and he pulled himself in closer, draining more efficiently. The slow restructuring of his body happened without his notice or care. All his focus narrowed down to the act of feeding, to filling the lingering void. He fed until there was nothing left. Actually, he might have kept sucking at the dry punctures if Eames had pulled him away. 

“It’s dead.” Eames said quietly. “You’re a mess.” 

“Don’t care.” He replied, suddenly tired again, but this time the satisfied fatigue of the hunt. “Sleep now.” 

“Back to the tent first. We sleep out here, someone’ll come looking for us. Hold on.” The handkerchief made an appearance gently wiping blood off of Arthur’s chin. 

“Thank you.” Arthur sighed, turning his face upwards into the touch. A drop of moisture hit his forehead. 

“Welcome.” 

“You’re crying.” 

“Bit of leaf in my eye.” The handkerchief disappeared in a flurry and they’re walking again. Arthur mostly on his own power. 

“All right.” Arthur allowed it. He felt a little drunk and glutted, the huge meal settling uncomfortably in his gut. 

They slipped through the camp like shadows. Arthur dropped happily into Eames’ makeshift bed, dragging the man in question with him. 

“You should get cleaned up.” Eames chided, trying to free himself. “Arthur? Arthur!” 

Fed, warm and surrounded by the comforting scent, Arthur had already fallen asleep, holding Eames in a vise-like grip. 

The sun found them still wrapped together. Arthur had woken in the pre-dawn hour, feeling boundlessly better. Without moving enough to wake Eames, he’d tested his muscles and found them nearly back to normal. It relieved him nearly as much as it scared him. Seven months of starvation and one meal restored him.

“S’too early.” Eames muttered in protest to some imagined attempt at waking. Arthur stroked his hair. 

“You came back for me.” He let the words hang in the air, filling the space between them. 

“Was always going to.” Eames yawned until his jaw cracked, blinking blearily up at him. “Looking better.” 

Arthur leaned down and kissed him, marveling in the soft skin pressed to his own, the misty heat of Eames’ breath dissolving against his face. His fingers traced the planes of the familiar face, thumbs rubbed over cheekbones. Eames lay pliant in the blankets, letting Arthur look his fill. 

When he leaned in to kiss him, Eames dragged him forward. They rutted against each other and Arthur all, but sobbed in the sweet release of it. He dug his fingers into the thick muscle of Eames’ shoulders and called him every good thing in the world, in every language that he knew. When he came, Eames held him through the heavy shaking before finishing himself. They lay pressed close together, sharing the heated air and a few lazy kisses until they returned to themselves. 

Reaching for last night’s discarded shirt to wipe them clean, a hint of embroidery glittered. Frowning, Arthur brought it closer for inspection. 

“This is mine.” 

“Yes, of course.” Eames laughed. “You wore it last night, remember?” 

“No...I mean this was mine, before.” He ran his hands over the colored thread, picking out a pattern of leaves. “I used to wear it on Tuesdays under a green frock coat.”

“Oh?” 

“Where did you get this?” He turned furious eyes to him. 

“I was going to tell you, soon as you looked less...well less like walking death.” Eames sat up, blankets pooling around his waist, a momentary distraction. “Only...perhaps it’s better if I showed you.” 

They dressed in hushed silence, arms and legs brushing against each other. The morning sun threw bright lances across them as they stepped out of the shadows. Arthur followed Eames as he wove through the tents, moving towards the center of the camp. They passed Captain Brandon standing around a rough table, dividing up a small bag of gems. 

A small fire near the the dead center of the camp was crowded over by several distinctly non-mercenary people. They seemed to be arguing over the quality of their food. 

“Arthur!” A woman cried, springing to her feet. 

“Mal?” He ran towards her and they crashed together, nearly falling to the ground in joined enthusiasm. “What are you doing here?” 

“As if I’d be left behind? When Eames came back without you...I couldn’t bear it.” She pulled back to look approvingly over him. “You look much better than yesterday.” 

“You look wonderful.” And she did, her dark hair curled back and her clothes clearly new for travel. “Where’s Philippa?” 

“I left her home with Theo and your cousin.” 

“My what?” He turned to Eames, eyes blazing. “My cousin?” 

“I told you, I couldn’t fund this by myself.” Eames grinned, unrepentant. “I went home first, told all and then kept traveling outwards. I had the use of a horse and the roads, so I went a fair bit faster. Found your cousin and her husband on the road coming my way, actually. Turns out they were looking for you.” 

“They were?” 

From the fire, a man rose, impressive in uniform. 

“Did you think, sir, that I was of so poor a man as not to?” 

“Saito!” Arthur stared, facts falling into place. “When you suggested hiring mercenaries I thought you were joking.” 

“Indeed.” Saito walked to meet him, looking quite pleased about the whole thing. He held out a hand and when Arthur clasped it, found himself caught and held. “I’m angry with you.” 

“I’m sorry?” 

“Your cousin almost backed out of our marriage, so crazed with worry was she. I was reduced to pointing out that she could not very well travel alone through Europe. It was a near thing.” His chiding tone was clearly in jest, but Arthur felt seized with guilt anyway. “She let me see the letter, I hope you do not mind.” 

“I-no.” He laughed, shakily. “I can’t even remember what I wrote anymore.”

“You were distraught. That much was clear. Your friends cleared up much of the rest.” 

“We had to tell them.” Mal squeezed his arm, apologetically. 

“Oh.” Overwhelmed, he looked back to fire. Dom gave him a half-hearted wave and more genuine smile. “Ariadne didn’t come?” 

“She’s pregnant.” Mal smiled. “And we all convinced her that we would bring you back as quickly as possible.” 

“Pregnant.” He blinked owlishly at her. 

“Think we overloaded him.” Eames grabbed his elbow and steered him towards Dom. “Sit, I’ll get you something to eat.” 

Mal settled warmly at his side and Saito took up his own breakfast again. It felt frighteningly dreamlike. When Eames returned, settling a hunk of bread slathered with butter into his hand, he had to clear his throat before he could bite into it. Each bite had texture and taste, things he couldn’t imagine feeling in a dream. As he ate, he slyly nipped at his own fingers, pleased to find that it hurt. 

“We will strike tents tomorrow morning.” Saito said into the quiet. “Captain Brandon wishes to look through the castle a last time and ensure that all the inhabitants have been rooted out. Arthur, are you fit to travel?” 

He only nodded, grateful to leave the cursed place behind. 

“Good. We can return the Cobbs and Mr. Eames to their village on our way back to Persia. I still have a job waiting for you. I’ve already pushed back the expedition to my home several times. I think we could be fit to travel again before winter.” 

“Persia?” Arthur asked through a mouthful of bread. He looked up and found Eames staring at him in sorrow. 

“He’s only recovered.” Dom jumped in smoothly. “Perhaps it can be discussed after he’s seen his cousin and had some time to regain his strength.” 

Saito looked him over doubtfully, but apparently he had come to trust Dom. 

“As you say.” He allowed, standing and walking briskly towards the Captain. 

“I never thought I could just go back.” Arthur stared into the flames. “After everything...” 

“You don’t have too.” Mal kissed his cheek. “You’ll always have a home with us.” 

“Thank you.” He smiled at her, but it quickly faded. “The book that Fisher had. I took it with me.” 

“Is that what that was?” Eames and Dom moved closer to them until the four of them were a tight knot, knees all pushed together. 

“It was written by the first of my kind as near as I can figure out.” He let his eyes drift closed, the scrip rising to his mind’s eye. “The script was Aramaic, but when I started to translate it, I found that it was just phonetic spelling for Portuguese. It wasn’t coded, really, but probably enough to throw off the local men that Fisher would’ve hired.” 

“That’s why he went all the way to Persia to get you.” Eames smiled at him. “Talented bloke.” 

“Unlucky.” He pushed a hand through his hair. “The person who wrote it...they gave their name as Lilith if you can believe that. He or she didn’t really understand what had happened. A slave of some kind that killed their master, an alchemist searching for the secret to eternal life.” 

Dom whistled low. “Suppose she found it.” 

“Sort of.” Arthur frowned. “Or something like it. It’s not quite life, really. If I’d give in and taken a life...it takes whatever it is that makes you human. Call it a soul if you want or empathy.” 

“It’s a choice.” Eames sucked in a breath. “Or probably is meant to be if done right.” 

“When he took the potion, did the ritual, the writer said he saw a djinn.” He shifted uncomfortably. “When I was attacked....” 

“What, love?” Mal took his hand.

“It sounds moronic.” He sighed. “I saw something like an angel.” 

“What did it look like?” 

“That’s just it...it didn’t. Not really. Golden light and a commanding voice. It asked me if I was ready to die.” He shivered at the memory. “I told it no. The djinn asked the writer the same thing and they also said no. I think it’s the first test. Are you willing to accept death? Who knows what happens if you say yes? The writer created others like themselves and it always succeeded.” 

“Wait.” Eames frowned. “How many others?” 

“Dozens.” Arthur exhaled. “Possibly as many as a hundred. Not all of them would have survived. But someone made Fisher and he was far enough down the line that he didn’t know his own origin.” 

“My god.” Mal squeezed his hand. “And if they all knew how to create more...there could be thousands by now. Wouldn’t we have noticed?” 

“Not if they were smart.” He grimaced. “Think about it. What if they traveled in small groups or even alone? Go from village to village only picking off one person here or there. Or do as Fisher did, set up a citadel and hunt in a radius around it. People die of mysterious causes and disappear in the woods all the time. Lilith’s vision was to seat an immortal on every throne. It’s hard to get close to royalty though if the changes are so obvious.” 

“They have all the time in the world to plan.” Dom said slowly. “If you were immortal, you could spend centuries biding your time.” 

“They’re out there.” Mal lifted her nose to the wind as if she could catch their scent on it. “Scheming right now on how to turn us into cattle.” 

“Won’t happen.” Eames wrapped his arm over Arthur’s shoulders, drawing him impossibly closer. “We’ve got an army and the element of surprise on our side.” 

“War.” The word caught in Arthur’s throat. 

“War.” Mal and Dom agreed. 

“I’m sorry that I brought this upon you.” Arthur let his head drop into his hands. 

“You brought nothing on us. You’ve gifted us with advanced warning.” Dom clapped him on the knee. “Who knows? Perhaps in our crusade we’ll find other wolves. Wouldn’t that be something? Get together a real pack, right Eames? An army of wolves to stave off the vampire threat.” 

“Perhaps.” Eames glanced at Arthur and he read every conversation they’d ever had about the shrinking woods in that gaze. 

When Mal and Dom finally wandered off to talk with Saito, Eames drew Arthur up and away from the camp. They walked quietly through the trees, hands clasped and the green leaves whispering overhead. 

“We’ll die doing this.” Arthur said when he could take the silence no more. 

“That’s not a very cheerful outlook.” But Eames didn’t disagree. 

“I think if I have to die, I should like it to be with you by my side.” Arthur turned to Eames and inhaled the perfect scent of him. “And I would like it to mean something.” 

“I can’t make you many promises.” Eames leaned down to kiss him. “But I swear that I will be at your side as long as you and Fate allow for it.” 

There were long, bloody paths waiting for them. In a hundred years, the entirety of werewolf kind would have died out, their teeth sunk into the throats of the last vampires that dared to feed. The war would pass forgotten from human annuals. 

But they could seize that moment in the vanishing woods. The world stopped for them, a soft inhalation of breath, as they pledged their short eternities to each other.


End file.
